The Diary

24 September 2007: Any Old Iron, Baggie-Lovers?

We all know how easily the term ?critical mass? can be applied in nuclear physics, i.e. bang a couple of lumps of plutonium together very quickly, and you?ll not only end up with a hole in the ground a few hundred yards wide, but you?ll also be well up in the mushroom-shaped cloud and gamma radiation stakes, too, not to mention completely atomised ? but how can that term be applied, wholesale, to a footballing context?

Easier than you might think, if you happen to be an Albion supporter. Take yesterday?s Glanford Park jaunt, for example. At the time of leaving West Bromwich for the dubious delights of the M6, M42 and M1 motorways, of the three of us that started the journey, only one, The Fart, was expressing an interest in letting Baggies Travel take the strain to our next game at Southampton?s Saint Mary?s Stadium, a couple of weeks from now.

But it was really amazing what miracles a long away trip could wreak: even before we disembarked outside the fastness of Scunny?s redoubt, and still captivated by the sheer pleasure I?d felt during that frenetic and emotionally-charged Bristol City game, I was beginning to waver, not so much thinking in terms of ?Where can hubby and myself go instead?? as ?Yup ? I really do fancy joining you on that South Coast jaunt, Mister Fart??

Having settled that in my mind, vaguely, and intending to inform our tame pilot of the airwaves (well, those run by the Beeb, at any rate) of my decision after the game, I sort of half-forgot the issue the very same moment both sets of combatants had shown themselves on the park. Interesting, then, that no sooner had we returned to the coach after that long-delayed final whistle, and all three of us still wildly enthusing about the game we?d just witnessed, one of the very first things that ??Im Indoors said to me was, ?I guess that means I?ll have to go to Southampton as well???

All said in the gloomy kind of tone that would have had even a battle-hardened Samaritans adviser heading off in search of the nearest motorway bridge to chuck themselves off, mind: the thing was, though, that although he dared not say it out loud, the sheer entertainment value of what we were currently getting made watching the Baggies a far more compulsive activity than, say, chasing the dragon in some disgusting squat, but with none of the more unpleasant side-effects normally associated with regular addictive behaviour. So that was my other half ?hooked?, then ? and yes, cue for near-mandatory ?junkie? joke: watching Albion really screws you up! Three down and counting?..

And we didn?t have to wait long before Old Motormouth himself finally perforated the satisfied post-match silence that had descended upon our returning coach: it was all the humming and hawing that preceded the meat of his subject-matter that gave it away. The Noise, lost for words? Never in a million years! But it was true, all right: once he?d skirted a bit around the delicate issue he wanted to discuss with we three Baggie buddies (a bit like what frequently happens when reluctant Dad is tasked with the job of teaching Teenage Son about certain matters euphemistically referred to as ?The Facts Of Life?, I suppose!), he finally excreted, then got off the pot. ?I?ve really enjoyed myself today: not just the game, the whole thing.? was his candid but excited admission, as we headed southwards at a rate of knots.

?You fancy doing Southampton, then?? asked The Fart impishly.

You could almost hear those cute but frequently-overworked cogs grinding away furiously, in that vast cranium of his: if nothing else, he was giving the matter some serious thought. Not long after that, he rang Jayne, mostly to ask how she and the kids were, but also to place the germ of the idea into his beloved?s mind, then let her mull over it during the intervening period before the lad finally arrived home.

By the way the aforementioned conversation seemed to go, plus several telling comments our Stokie mate made afterwards, I reckon that no outright wifely objection had been raised regarding what our chum had in mind, so the proof of the pudding will undoubtedly lie in what he wants us to do prior to tomorrow night?s League Cup game versus Cardiff. Tickets already being on sale to home season-ticket holders, we can sort everything out then, our pet theory being that owing to the long distance involved, and most having done the ground anyway, not all that huge a number will actually want to suck it and see.

Critical mass achieved? By and large, I should say so. Whether or not four, as opposed to three, will be swelling the Baggie numbers that day for certain, remains to be seen. Personally, as befits his ?convalescent? status, I reckon that the mere act of watching the lads, not to mention the wonderfully entertaining fare most pundits now associate with them, is just the ticket for him as he undergoes the slow process of recovery. Still, we await developments, as the lecherous photographer once said to his innocent, but completely nude, studio model.

As for yesterday?s incident-packed game, what a thriller, eh? Partly down to the inability of the whistler in charge to tell the time properly (as far as that awful lino to our left is concerned, words fail me!) but also down to Scunthorpe not wanting to let that wonderful home record of theirs slip away in a welter of mud and curses. Understandable of course, which was largely why the events of those last few minutes almost precipitated heart attacks and strokes aplenty in that away end. What a game: not quite so electrically-charged as Tuesday night?s affair, ?tis true, but with both incident and excitement aplenty, all the same.

As far as our keeper is concerned, when he finally snuffs it, Kiely should be preserved in brandy, then jerked back to life by means of a briskly-applied electric current whenever we need him. Such are the hair-trigger qualities of his reflexes, I?d stake my claim on his probable triumph, were he to go holster-to-holster with the long-deceased spirit of Jesse James on a wind-blown, tumbleweed-infested main drag in some Arizonan frontier town, just as they did back in the lawless mid-19th century.

Barnett? When he?s not been on the suicide pills, great. Would stop an express train if you asked him nicely, I reckon. But he will keep having those odd Condor moments when on the job, and on one memorable occasion this weekend just gone, it was largely down to him that we nearly paid dearly. Alby?s display was impeccable, or as near to that desired state as you could possibly wish for. Is getting classier with every game we play: aeons better than he was just a few short months ago. Robbo? Once more, an uncompromising performance: let?s hope that the injury he acquired during the course of ? erm ? injury time, doesn?t keep him out of the side next Sunday afternoon. Or even Tuesday night, should Mogga want to give him an extra run out.

Jonathan Greening? As ever, didn?t he do well? Ditto Tex, who proved to be a defender?s nightmare, the capricious whims of his swivelling hips, when on the ball, sending him first right, then left, neatly frustrating the intentions of those in the Scunny rearguard tasked with stopping him. A real powerhouse, and at least as good as, if not better than, the dear departed Jason Koumas. As for Koren, he, too is worthy of mention in the same sentence as our lank-haired dynamo. Not too far from performing on all four cylinders, I reckon.

Hoefkens, of course, ended up with the baggage of that early penalty hanging around his neck. But was it a nailed-on spot-kick offence? Let me put it this way: I?ve seen ?em refused for much worse than what our lad was alleged to have done. Someday, we?ll get consistency among referees, but at the moment, it?s an aspiration akin to that of Absolute Zero, or what?s called a ?perfect gas?: products of the scientific imagination, purely and simply because it?s long been proven that they can never exist in real life. Whistlers, being human (so rumour has it!) are occasionally wont to make mistakes ? yesterday?s incident was one of ?em. As was the seeming stoppage of his flaming watch, no doubt.

My personal jury is still out on Chris Brunt, despite the lad having scored yesterday. He?s a little like the curate?s egg; good in parts. Once more, Ishmael Miller caused complete havoc in the opposing defence, as did the doings of Zoltan Gera, conducting himself in similar manner to a wasp disturbed in its autumnal slumbers by nosey kids poking inside its nest: have both players buzzing around the opposing penalty area, and you could almost scent a sudden need for bike-clips in an already emotionally-charged Scunny dugout.

As per the famous statement made by the Duke Of Wellington about our own troops: ?I don?t know what they do to the opposition, but they certainly scare the pants off me?.? A twin threat about as potent as a Scud missile, and, should they both happen to ?detonate? during the course of any game, equally devastating.

My only reservation about Ishmael is his seeming lack of stamina, still. By now, you could easily be excused for wondering why his adaptation to the pace commonly seen in our level of football isn?t quite complete, as yet. Still, staying on the pitch until the last ten minutes, or longer, is a definite improvement upon what we?d seen before. Look out, Rangers, you are next!

A clear indicator of the sort of satisfaction Baggie regulars are getting from their football, these days, can be found in my other half?s post-match comments, both at Scunthorpe and post-Ashton Gate. With him, there?s far more emphasis on a game as decent entertainment value: what primarily motivates us all, I guess, but it?s been the distinct lack of such a desirable Baggies commodity over the course of recent seasons that?s precipitated my beloved?s near-refusenik status regarding regular attendance at most away fixtures.

As he said on the coach coming back, though, that Scunthorpe game could just as easily finished 7-4 to the visitors, and, what?s more, he now realises that all the cussing he did that afternoon was largely generated by the sheer quality of entertainment provided over the course of the entire 90 minutes, both thrills and spills. Admit it, those of you who also travel away: were the respective brainchildren of Megson and Robbo considered as attractive to our peripatetic contingent?

No, despite the fact that varying Albion-related frustrations still place me in great danger of ending up with a pate as bald as Chappy?s, I?m still very much a Baggie, and loving every single minute of it too, with Mogga in charge. This has to be our most exciting side in any number of years, and this our most convincing attempt to flee the Championship. As for next Tuesday, despite the dead cert fact we?ll be fielding a side with quite different personalities starring in it, Cardiff or no Cardiff, I genuinely can?t wait for the moment when we both jump into our car to head for the Hawthorns. Which, in these days of serial cynicism, can?t be all that bad, can it?

And Finally??MYSTERY OF THE WEEK NUMBER ONE. Back to Saturday?s game once more, folks! Can someone out there explain, please, and in words consisting entirely of one syllable, just why it took some eight or nine plods, not to mention an accompanying retinue of fluorescent-jacketed stewards, to overpower one solitary bloke (whether of Albion or Iron affiliation, I know not) causing a rumpus in the stand to the right of the away end, during the latter part of the first half?

MYSTERY OF THE WEEK NUMBER TWO. Found, one black jacket, velvet-type material, complete with yellow-metal ?poodle? brooch on one lapel, on the rear seat of our car, last Thursday night, after the Sutton Branch bash. Since that pleasant evening, we have asked The Fart, who accompanied us to that meeting, about its provenance, but it doesn?t belong to him (well, I couldn?t have imagined him wearing such an item of clothing anyway!): it?s nothing to do with me, and neither has it anything to do with my other half, so thereby hangs a tale. Just who the hell IS the owner of this strange garment?

 - Glynis Wright

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